3 am poem (poetry)

I look down the cold empty street
smelling of pocket produced
marijuana, angel dust, crack
filtered in the spaces of cracks and glasses
of 40s shattered with a hint of heroin brewed
for the delicate hair in our nose
and gasoline stained streets
the smell of burned tires lifted up to our faces
to intimidate
our perceptions
from vehicles previously passed
through the concrete - as you recall past experiences
and we're giggling hard
over one-more-time jokes and
other less
important things
these jokes are more funny now
than they ever were before and
we can't stop laughing
can't stop sending echos down the street

an old lady pulls at her old bed
window - raising it up to shout at us laughing
which only raises the hilarity
as more lights turn on
as more faces appear
as the streets illuminate
but no one seems to care
looking down at us from windows
looking tired and
having jobs tomorrow
confused because we might not
or maybe we just don't - makes them yell from their porches
and higher perches,
"shut up"

you recognize this first
and stop laughing
before I realise it
I stop too and
I wonder
where the humor had gone
as lights switch off and faces disappear